sauntered towards the bar in a way Randall had tried and failed to replicate. It may be only one foot in front of the other but some men made it look like the world was there only to provide a backdrop for them. Randall picked up his guitar and strummed a few notes. Tonight’s starting band was just warming up, so it was a good time to make sure his strings were tuned. It was Christian who had first persuaded him to get up and jam. Randall had been sat at his usual out-of-the-way table, and Christian had wandered over asking if he could sit down. They’d begun talking and Randall had found he could speak to Christian without feeling like a fraud. That was two months ago. Since then Christian had been at The Fret every Thursday night, and Randall wasn’t too proud to admit that he looked forward to those precious minutes of chatting before the music got too loud for it. Christian had a way of putting things that made sense – wasn’t it more embarrassing to sit there with a guitar than to just get up and have a go, wanting a tattoo was natural but try henna first in case you wanted to change the design, keeping the details of your private life from your family wasn’t disloyal if it meant you maintained your sense of who you were – and Randall was finally experiencing that precious event: his first adult friendship. Christian, he thought, was exactly the kind of person he wanted to grow up to be.
Callanach and his mother exited the hotel bar by mutual silent agreement. Privacy was required, if Callanach could find the voice to talk at all. His mother had been raped. He was sure that’s what she had said, yet it had taken minutes to process those few words. He’d looked around the bar. The man next to him was laughing too loudly, mouth open wider than was decent. A woman who thought she was beyond the rules was vaping in the corner. Another man was creeping his hand sideways to touch a waitress’ behind. Then he’d seen the first tear fall from his mother’s eyes and his world had begun to turn at full speed again. He’d held out his hand to take her arm, and gently pulled her towards the lifts, to her room, where he could ask all the questions he did not want to ask and hear the answers that he already knew would haunt him forever.
In her room, Véronique went to stand by the window. Laughter drifted up from the Royal Mile and Christmas lights flashed dimly in the darkness, colouring his mother’s face as she stared out. Callanach sat on a chair in the corner and waited. He’d been here a hundred times, waiting for a victim to find the words they needed to begin their story. It didn’t help to rush them. He knew his mother was doing what every rape victim had to do before starting to talk. She was breaking down the brick wall she had built inside herself.
‘How much do you want to know?’ she whispered.
‘All of it,’ he said. ‘As much as you can bear to tell me.’
Véronique nodded and wrapped her arms around herself. Her knuckles were white. She turned her back so that her face was completely hidden and began to speak.
‘I was twenty-two,’ she said. ‘Naive, I suppose. Your father and I had been married a year. He had always been so kind, such a gentle man that it never occurred to me that I could be unsafe when I went anywhere with him. Times were not easy then. Work in Scotland was hard to find. We were struggling to pay our rent. No one seemed to want to employ a young French girl, so he was supporting us both. What do you remember about him, Luc?’
Callanach had to think for a moment. His memories from when he was four, just before his father had passed, were blurred but the vision he had was of his father’s hands always held out to lift him up, or to hug him. They were strong and warm.
‘Warmth,’ Callanach said. ‘His face is less clear as I get older, but I remember his voice. And his laugh. I think every memory is of him laughing.’
‘Yes. Always laughing,’ Véronique said. ‘That was him. Even when things were hard for us, he never lost his joy. He was a good man who only wanted to see the good in others. I was a virgin before I got married. A lot of women still were back then. Your father was the only man I …’
She broke off, resting her forehead against the window, her tears mixing with a drip of condensation as she breathed against the glass.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ Callanach said.
‘Yes, I do,’ Véronique said. ‘You have a right to know.’ She sank down to sit on the window sill. ‘Your father finally got a job at Edinburgh Bespoke, a furniture-making factory. Because of his experience and his manner with the other men, his employers made him foreman very quickly. We were able to move out from rented accommodation and buy a flat. We were stretching ourselves financially but it was all right. We were young and in love, and we got by. Your father was proud of himself. He was twenty-five, had a good job and we’d begun talking about starting a family. That job meant the world to him. He made every day funny, you know? He came home with stories about his colleagues, their families, little things that went wrong. He had this photo of me, taken during our first dance at the wedding, that he kept on his desk at work. He used to tell me how the other men would say that I was beautiful, that he was lucky. It was silly, vain, but I thought it was harmless.’
She broke off on a sob, one hand at her throat. Callanach wanted to put his arms around her but couldn’t. Assault victims required space, not human contact, when reliving their experiences. He knew the form, had been trained endlessly on pro-tocols and procedures. Still, none of it had prepared him for this.
‘It was the work Christmas party,’ Véronique said, hardening her voice, gulping a breath. ‘I was wearing a green dress. Your father had bought it for me especially. He wanted me to look my best. It had a swing skirt, just above the knee. I told your father it was too expensive but he insisted. The party was at the warehouse. It was decorated, there was a tree, they put on some music, made punch. It was nice for me to meet the people I’d heard so much about, I felt like I knew them already. I was dancing with your father. He was driving us home so he hadn’t had any of the punch, but I had. Just a couple of glasses, although that was enough to make me a little dizzy. I wasn’t used to spirits and I don’t know what they’d put in it, but it was stronger than I’d realised.’
As if she was still there, Véronique reached out for a glass that was sitting on top of a cabinet, opened the hotel fridge and poured sparkling water. She took a long drink and sat down on the deep window sill, legs huddled up into her chest.
‘There was a telephone call. One of the company lorries had broken down and it needed to be towed to a garage, but it was full of furniture that had to be delivered the next day. Someone had to take out another lorry and bring the goods back to the warehouse. Your father was one of the few people still sober who could drive the truck. I hadn’t wanted him to go, but there was no real option. I remember wanting to go home, but I was persuaded to stay. Mr Jenson, one of the partners, said he would look after me. I hadn’t wanted to seem antisocial.
‘As soon as your father was gone, Mr Jenson offered me a tour of the warehouse. He made me feel important, talked about how much they valued my husband, did I want to see his office, and I went. I never thought for a moment … The music was on loudly by then, very loudly. People were singing, dancing, there was a lot of alcohol. We went up to the top floor, which was deserted. I recall wondering why he was showing me, that there wasn’t anything to see. The corridors were dark and there were heavy fire doors between sections of the building. We got to the far end, as far away from the party as you could get, and Mr Jenson told me that was where his office was. He opened the door. There was another man in there, one I hadn’t spoken to but I knew that it was the firm’s other partner, Mr Western. He got up from the desk, came to shake my hand, complimented my dress. Although he didn’t say anything wrong, I remember feeling that I shouldn’t have been there.
